No sooner had the judge confirmed the jury’s verdict and closed the case with a few formal words than the well of the court exploded in a confused and jostling mass of figures. Within seconds, the plaintiff was mobbed by more supporters than he can have been aware of having. Strangers were slapping his back and shaking his hand, journalists were shouting questions in his ear. Sir James himself, however, as if overwhelmed by the significance of what had occurred, said nothing in reply to the flood of congratulations. He seemed bemused, ill-prepared, uncertain how to react.
Then, at sight of Constance Trenchard threading a path to his side, his expression changed. As he reached out to clasp her hand, a smile came to his lips that left no room for doubt: she was the one person with whom he wished to share his triumph. Taking her arm in his, he led her calmly towards the exit, looking neither to right nor to left. This, his bearing implied, was the richest of all the prizes he had won that day: this was what made it all worth while.
Later, during the brief privacy of a cab-ride from the Courts to Staple Inn, where Warburton was to host a celebration for those who had contributed to the victory, Sir James asked Constance Trenchard to marry him as soon as she was free to do so. She accepted without hesitation and he, for his part, promised never to desert her again. In the rapture of a re-discovered love, they spoke only of the future they would spend together. The past – and those in it who might still have calls upon them – they were happy to forget. For the past, they felt sure, they had escaped for ever.
The welter of publicity which attended the sensational conclusion of the case of Norton versus Davenall faded with surprising speed. The newspapers tired of the new baronet once he had made it clear that he would neither give interviews nor sign articles trumpeting his victory for the entertainment of their readers. Within a few weeks, the world went a long way towards doing what it seemed he wanted them to do: forget him.
Not that it was hard to understand Sir James’s desire for privacy. Overnight, he had become the owner of a fine London residence, a large country house, a lucrative portion of the Somerset coalfield and a sizeable estate in the west of Ireland. The Council of the Baronetage had formally welcomed him to their ranks, the Davenall family banker to his doors. He had become a wealthy man. All his problems were behind him. Of publicity he had no need.
Perhaps this also explains why Sir James showed himself to be such a magnanimous victor. He made no swift or unreasonable demands on those of his family who had opposed him. He refrained from any move that might smack of vengeance. It was not, indeed, until early August that he asked his cousin Richard to convene a meeting with Warburton, Baverstock and Lewis in order to arrive at a final settlement of the dispute. Even then, the terms he proposed were more generous than they needed to be. When he visited Richard at his Holborn office to hear the outcome, he could reasonably have expected to hear that his offer had been gratefully accepted.
‘As far as litigation goes,’ Richard announced, ‘it’s certainly over. The judge stipulated, you may remember, that an appeal could only be considered if there were new evidence. Lewis candidly admits there is none.’
‘Good. What of the rest?’ Here, however, the surprises began.
‘Your mother rejects the idea of remaining at Cleave Court, just as she rejects the proposed allowance. She wishes to be beholden to you for nothing. She intends to move out immediately.’
‘To go where?’
‘Baverstock said she plans to rent a smaller property somewhere. Anywhere, I gather, so long as it isn’t on land you own.’
Lady Davenall’s refusal to compromise, even in defeat, was, in its own way, admirable. The conduct of the case had evidently ensured there could be no reconciliation between them. ‘So it’s come to that,’ said Sir James, sounding more disappointed than surprised.
‘I fear so.’
‘And Hugo?’ His brother’s response to generosity was more predictable. Greed and weakness might have induced him to accept what jealousy and his mother’s disapproval should have forbidden him to consider.
‘He will be out of Bladeney House by the end of this month.’
‘But the allowance?’
‘I don’t know. Baverstock hedged. But the first payment’s been made. Either Hugo hasn’t noticed – or he grudgingly accepts. One thing is certain, however. There can be no healing of the breach. Neither Catherine nor Hugo wishes to see either of us, under any circumstances.’
‘I’m sorry for your sake, Richard. I know you hoped the end of the case would be the end of the feud, but there was never any real chance it would be. Mother went too far in denying me to turn back now. And Hugo went with her.’
Richard sighed. ‘So it seems.’ Then he sighed again, in a different vein: the vein of a man settling for the best there was to be had. ‘One thing the meeting did achieve. There are no longer any obstacles or objections to your control of the property and investments Gervase willed to you. From this day forth, they are yours to dispose of as you see fit.’
It was strangely subdued, this final conferral, this last word of ratification. Less than a year before, James Norton had stepped off the boat from America as a penniless stranger. Now, as Sir James Davenall, he stood high amongst the moneyed and well-born of the land. ‘I remain more grateful than I can say, Richard, for your efforts on my behalf. I hope I can continue to rely upon you.’
Richard smiled. ‘I have done no more than duty obliged me to do. I know you spoke of asking me to assume administration of your financial affairs, but—’
‘It is what I earnestly wish.’
‘Then, I would be honoured to do so. There is much to be attended to.’
‘For the present, I must leave it all in your hands.’
A crestfallen look crossed Richard’s face. ‘You don’t intend to play an active part?’
‘Eventually, yes. But the trial, as you predicted, has been a draining experience. I feel the need of a long rest. Constance has agreed to accompany me on a Continental tour: it is the change of scene we both need. We will take Emily with us’ – he smiled – ‘by way of chaperone.’
‘How long will you be away?’
‘Three months or so. By the time we return, there will only be a short while to wait before we can marry. At that point, with Constance beside me as my wife, I will feel able to discharge my responsibilities as I would wish.’
After all that had happened, Sir James’s need of a period of recuperation was understandable, and Richard was the obvious choice to oversee his affairs whilst he was away. It was strange, therefore, that when they fell to discussing the details of what would be involved a hint arose that rather more than mere stewardship was at issue. Nothing specific was said on either side but, somehow, it did not need to be. Their understanding of each other was sufficient for the implication to be clear and the inference obvious. Once Richard accepted responsibility for Sir James’s interests, any doubts he still harboured about him would either have to be set aside for good or brought into the open at last. And accept he did. The unspoken challenge was taken up.
II
In one of the dining-boxes of a luridly decorated casino-cum-supper-house near Leicester Square, Hugo Davenall was seeking to cauterize the wound his pride had recently suffered with an excess of food, drink and raucous company.
Cheers, whistles and stamps greeted the newest arrival on the small stage at the centre of the throng: a scantily dressed song-girl constituting the most daring act yet on the ever racier programme. Behind and above her, flaring gas-jets and bottle-plug candle-flames danced in banks of cheap crystal, while smoke swirled in the cavernous mouths of gilt-framed mirrors.
Hugo glanced contemptuously at the snoring figure beside him of Toby Leighton, then looked across the table at Freddy Cleveland, who drained another glass, replaced the cigar in his mouth, and smiled crookedly back.
‘You look horribly sober, Hugo,’ Cleveland remarked.
‘I’ve drunk the same as you, bottle for bottle.
’
‘You wouldn’t know it. Still thinkin’ about the case?’
‘How can I forget it? I can’t go home tonight without remembering he owns the bed I sleep in. I can’t put my name to a cheque without remembering it’s his money I’ll be drawing on. God damn it, Freddy’ – he crashed his glass down on the table – ‘the bastard’s taken everything from me! You expect me to forget that?’
‘You’re goin’ to have to, old man. What choice d’you have?’
Hugo gazed into the darkness beyond their table. ‘That fellow Trenchard had the right idea. It’s a pity he didn’t finish the job.’
‘Maybe, but look where it got him: the madhouse.’
‘In my father’s day, I could have called Norton out. That would have settled his hash.’
‘Or yours, old man. With your marksmanship, you’d be lucky to hit a tart’s arse at five paces.’
But Hugo was proof against humour and reason alike. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated, for a brief moment, the possibility of revenge. ‘If Norton was in my sights, I’d hit the target, believe me.’
‘That’s the champagne talkin’.’
‘Then what would you have me do?’
‘Make your peace with the fellow. The world calls him your brother: go along with ’em. If you don’t …’
‘He’ll cut me off without a penny.’ Hugo nodded bleakly.
‘Reckon so, old man. Reckon that’s just what he’ll do.’
Hugo ground his teeth. ‘Damn the man, Freddy,’ he muttered. ‘Damn the bloody man.’
At that, Cleveland plucked the cigar from his mouth and struggled to adopt a serious expression. ‘Take my advice: swallow your pride and make it up with him. D’you know what Bullington said to me last week?’
Bullington was generally held to be the power behind the chair of their club committee. Hugo looked at his friend with a stirring of curiosity. ‘What did he say?’
‘That the committee’s thinkin’ of invitin’ James to resume his membership. After all, he never formally resigned.’
‘They wouldn’t do that to me!’
‘They would. They will. If you go on opposin’ him, you’ll be floggin’ a dead horse. It’ll put you distinctly out of favour. Maybe out altogether.’
Hugo’s mouth sagged open, but he said nothing. He stared at the green distorted reflection of himself in the champagne-bottle. Behind him, through gusts of music and laughter, came a high-pitched whine only he could detect, a mosquito-buzz of ridicule that threatened to grow into the deafening roar of his destruction.
III
Richard Davenall, Canon Sumner and little Patience, with her nanny, were at Victoria station to see James, Constance and Emily off on the boat-train. Barely three weeks had passed since the end of the trial, but, despite many last-minute panics, all the necessary preparations had been completed, mainly thanks to Emily, who had organized her maiden venture abroad with the precision of a seasoned traveller.
Canon Sumner had failed to comprehend the need for such a hasty departure, but nobody had seen fit to enlighten him. Patience, of course, being too young to appreciate how long her mother would be away, was likewise in ignorance. And Emily was so flattered to be asked and excited to be going that she had not quibbled about the timing.
As a slamming of doors and gathering of steam signalled the imminence of departure, Richard stepped back to let Canon Sumner impress upon James some last concerns for his daughters’ welfare, whilst Constance and Emily made a farewell fuss of Patience.
Richard was happy, in truth, to stand a little aloof from the sentiment of the scene, relieved not to have to wish James a platitudinous bon voyage. He let his gaze wander along the platform, where many a fond adieu was being exchanged. He saw the guard at the back of the train clamp a whistle between his teeth and raise the green flag. Then, just as he was about to look back at his friends, he noticed a porter hurrying a latecomer past the guard’s disapproving glare: a woman, slim, elegant and darkly clad, seemingly without luggage. She stepped aboard, and the door closed behind her. As it did so, Richard caught a glimpse of her face, turned momentarily to look in his direction. He knew her. As the guard unfurled his flag and blew his whistle, Richard realized who she was: the woman at the hospital who had been asking after James, the woman whose appearance was so uncannily close to Trenchard’s description of Melanie Rossiter.
For a second, he was too dumbstruck to act. Then it was too late. The train was moving. Patience was being held up by her nanny to wave goodbye through the piston steam. Constance and Emily were waving back. James, standing behind them, had raised his hand to Canon Sumner. The train was slowly accelerating. Richard’s companions were walking after it along the platform to delay the last exchange of blown kisses. But Richard stood where he was, staring straight ahead as the row of lowered windows and smiling occupants slid past him.
One window was empty. The compartment he had seen her enter flashed by too quickly for him to see if she was sitting in it, but, even had she not been, he could not have doubted the evidence of his own eyes. Once might have been a coincidence, a misapprehension founded on a chance resemblance. But now there could be no mistake. She existed. She was real. And she was following James Davenall.
IV
From the spacious precincts of Cleave Court, Catherine Davenall had moved to a rented house in Brock Street, Bath. Despite the loss of most of her servants and all of her much-loved gardens, however, her spirit was undimmed. Undeterred by the ostracism of those who thought her conduct disgraceful and the restrictions imposed by her reduced circumstances, she remained as proud and as self-possessed as ever.
Nor had she, whatever Richard Davenall might have been told to the contrary, abandoned her struggle with the man the world now called her son. When Arthur Baverstock called on her one afternoon in late August, it was on no trivial errand: he had come to report the progress of continuing enquiries into the mysterious past of James Norton.
Alas for Baverstock, he had little to report. ‘Mr Lewis is of the opinion,’ he explained, ‘that we shall make no headway whilst we continue to deal through intermediaries. He feels we should send a member of his staff to the United States to conduct a thorough investigation.’
‘Tell him to go ahead, Mr Baverstock. I wish for no half-measures.’
He had feared she would say as much. It obliged him to express his own unflattering reservations. ‘Such a course of action would commit you to substantial expenditure, your Ladyship.’
‘That is no matter.’
Baverstock squirmed. ‘But, as Mr Lewis points out, your resources are not as considerable as they were. He fears—’
‘Let me be the judge of what my resources are or are not equal to.’ Her glare had lost none of its power to intimidate him. ‘I wish no stone to be left unturned and I will pay whatever that costs. Tell Mr Lewis he may have his money in advance if he wishes.’
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’
‘I hope it will not be. I am enduring this modest standard of accommodation, Mr Baverstock, in order to ensure that the search for the truth about this man can continue to the end.’
Baverstock, who secretly believed the truth was already known, nodded in agreement. ‘Of course, of course.’
‘He believes he has beaten me. That will make him complacent. Complacency breeds carelessness. The longer it goes on, the likelier it becomes that he will make a fatal mistake. It is all I ask of him.’
‘Yes, your Ladyship.’
‘I know you and Mr Lewis believe I am pursuing a pointless vendetta. Don’t trouble to deny it. But its results will surprise you – rely upon that. We are taking steps to monitor his movements on the Continent, I trust?’
‘Yes, indeed. Mr Lewis has one of his best people on it.’
‘Good. His eagerness to quit the country interests me. It may be an elaborate method of contacting his principals. If there are any developments, however trivial, I wish to be informed at once.’<
br />
‘You will be, your Ladyship.’
‘Be sure I am. He thinks he is safe now, Mr Baverstock, so very safe. But it is not so. In truth, his peril is greater than before. Whilst there is breath in my body, he will not want for an enemy.’
This last Baverstock did not doubt. Lady Davenall’s objective was clear. Only in the possibility of its fulfilment did he have no faith.
V
It was the last day of August, grey and crushingly hot. Richard Davenall sat in his office, gazing out at the weary ferment of Holborn, trying and failing to apply his mind to the work he had on hand.
The weather, or something more insidious, had sapped him of energy. Why, he wondered, was he still pursuing doubts his rational mind ought to shed? Only a few days before, he had received a letter from Constance in Salzburg proclaiming that all was well. There had been nothing in anything she wrote to sustain his belief that Melanie Rossiter was following them. Maybe he had not seen her after all. Maybe he had imagined doing so. Maybe he was simply losing his grip.
When Benson put his head round the door, Richard assumed it was to report nothing more spectacular than the arrival of the afternoon post. Instead, he said: ‘There’s a man wanting to see you, sir. Without an appointment.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He says he’s Alfred Quinn.’
Suddenly, after all the efforts Roffey had made to find him, suddenly, when it was too late to matter, Quinn had come.
He had changed little with the years. A short muscular figure in tweeds, holding a bowler hat by his side. The short-cropped hair was rather greyer than before and extended now to a beard, but otherwise he was much the same: stiff-backed and square-shouldered, with a pugnacious bearing, steely-eyed and expressionless, his whole uncompromising demeanour hinting at sides to his character he was too cautious to reveal.
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